


Sweet Tooth

by onstraysod



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Dubious Consent, Fantasizing, Humiliation, Lascelles being a first-class creep, M/M, Mild Language, Minor Violence, sexual fantasies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-03
Updated: 2015-10-03
Packaged: 2018-04-24 13:11:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4920931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onstraysod/pseuds/onstraysod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a moment of irritation, Henry Lascelles indulges his sweet tooth and fantasizes about how he might put John Childermass in his place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweet Tooth

**Author's Note:**

> For vicivefallen, who requested a story about Lascelles... well, being Lascelles. ;) 
> 
> Warning: Contains fantasies which reference drugging and restraint. Also contains Henry Lascelles, who is a sleazebag.

Henry Lascelles reacted physically to frustration in two specific areas of his body. One was a metaphorical appendage which resided in his mouth. The other lay rather farther south and was most distractingly real.

For all the advantages that editing _The Friends of English Magic_ had already brought him, there were also annoyances. Norrell's pedantry, his frequent habit of changing his mind about some obscure reference in an article on the very eve of its publication, and his insecurity about whether a particular essay were revealing too much or too little, sometimes drove Lascelles to the point of distraction. In any pursuit with less tangible benefits he might already have thrown down his pen, called his tormentor a very choice epithet (or challenged him to a duel), and stalked out. But this venture was proving too lucrative for such displays of pique. And so Lascelles bit down on his tongue, drew a deep breath, and endured it.

But such moments of distress made his sweet tooth act up in the most demanding of manners. He found himself craving something sugary upon his tongue with such intensity that he had, more than once, excused himself to visit the nearest confectioner's, spending perhaps a quarter of an hour indulging in various comfits and hard candies until, feeling decidedly calmer, he could return to Hanover-square in a much better frame of mind. But such excursions interrupted the flow of his work habits, and so he had brought with him that very morning a dish of lemon drops as a gift for Mr. Norrell, and set them out upon the magician's desk. Norrell had glanced at the candies and wrinkled up his nose in distaste, which was all to the better: they weren't really intended for him, anyway.

So that afternoon, when Lascelles felt irritation gathering like a pain in the back of his neck, and Norrell's drone - in which various words like _disreputable_ , _Uskglass_ , and _Sutton-Grove_ were mixed up with complaints about a draft coming from the window and the loudness of modern newsboys yelling on the sidewalk outside - began to grate upon his ears, Lascelles got up from his chair, stretched, and - going to Norrell's desk - dipped his long fingers into the dish of lemon drops. As the sweetness began to dissolve on the heat of his tongue he could almost fancy that Norrell's voice was fading away into nothingness.

But Norrell was not the only - nor, perhaps, the greatest - irritant in Hanover-square, and that other, worse annoyance walked, glowering, past Lascelles as he leaned against the desk with his lemon drops. That perambulating plague upon his peace of mind, that living contaminant to the otherwise rarefied air he breathed, was of course Mr. Norrell's manservant John Childermass: or, as Lascelles sometimes referred to him in his mind, that piece of Yorkshire filth Norrell had tracked into London upon the sole of his shoe. His mere presence in the library made Lascelles pop another lemon drop in his mouth and seek comfort in its sour tang. It helped, for that sourness made him think of how amusing it was that he had selected a candy that perfectly mirrored the dispositions of the two irritants that harassed him. The selection had been unintentional, of course. But the comparison was just.

As he sucked on his lemon drop, Lascelles allowed himself to indulge in a little daydream. He imagined himself leaning a little further back against Norrell's desk and accidentally - just accidentally, mind you - knocking the dish of candies onto the floor. Oh! How loud they would be, spilling and bouncing across the floorboards, scattering off in every direction: rolling under chairs and beneath desks and tables, tumbling to a halt beneath the edge of the bookshelves. Norrell would be all consternation, worrying that any stray candies might attract mice or other pests, and of course he would need a servant to come immediately and clean up the mess.

"Why ring, sir, when you have one at hand?" Lascelles would say as Norrell reached for the bell. "Make Childermass pick them up."

And so, Lascelles imagined Childermass being obliged to get on his hands and knees and crawl about the library, picking up every single lemon drop. Lascelles imagined the sight in some detail. Childermass, having removed his coat, perched on the rug on all fours like the animal he was, broad shoulders tensed beneath his waistcoat, the muscles in his arms and back rippling as he moved, his whole long frame stretching as he felt beneath the furniture for every piece of yellow candy. Perhaps Lascelles would hover over him, directing him here and there, kicking a lemon drop further away just as Childermass reached for it, forcing the Yorkshireman to turn and crawl in the opposite direction, his narrow hips, his slender but still shapely arse swaying slightly with the movement of his legs. Lascelles smiled, imagining the delicious humiliation of it. Of course Childermass would gaze up at him through those tendrils of dirty black hair and scowl, a murderous look in the dark eyes beneath the darker lashes - and a servant ought not to be allowed to look at their betters in such a way. So Lascelles imagined how he would plant his foot (a lovely foot, clad in the fine leather slippers he was wearing today) in the small of Childermass's back, pressing the Yorkshireman's face to the floor, running the toe of his shoe down over that rather distracting arse too frequently hidden beneath the tails of Childermass's outdated coat. And wouldn't it be better yet if he could tie the man's hands - those filthy hands with their blackened nails - behind his back and force him to squirm around on his stomach like a worm, fetching up each lemon drop with his mouth. Lascelles would be benevolent: he would allow Childermass to eat the candies if he wished to, let him gorge himself on lemon drops. Perhaps he would hold back a few and cast them to the floor from time to time for Childermass to retrieve, sucking on them first to get them sticky, covering them with his saliva for the Yorkshireman to taste.

In the present moment - with Norrell's voice still droning in the background like a hive full of bees - Lascelles slid another lemon drop between his lips and sucked hard, his mind filled with these pleasant visions. He was reminded, suddenly, of a diverting pastime he had once shared with Maria Bullworth. He would tie a blindfold around her eyes and feed her various delicacies, and she would have to guess what each was by its taste and texture against her lips and tongue. He brought cherries and sugared apricots to her mouth, candied almonds and little cakes dusted with powdered sugar and, as the game progressed, his fingers dipped in melted chocolate, a nipple coated with lemon curd. Despite the fact that he had found her eager to please in almost every other way, Maria had refused to oblige him with one particular act, so the game allowed him a way to get what he wanted without needing her consent. It took her a delightfully long time to guess what she was sucking strawberry sauce off of, and by the time she did it was far too late. He had laughed and she had called him cruel and sulked for a time. But in the end she had stayed and it was but a week or two later that she had muttered that dreadful phrase in the heat of her pleasure: _"Henry-- oh, Henry, how I love you!"_ The words had hung upon the air like a miasma; they had fallen over him like a bucket of cold water, and from that moment on the taste of her, the smell of her, the feel of her touch had sickened him, reminding him of her disgusting neediness, her obscene sentimentality, a thing he despised above all else.

Yet the memory of the game was still pleasing to him. But it required, by its nature, a willing partner. Or a constrained one. Suddenly a scenario was unfolding itself before Lascelles's inner eye, a scenario to satisfy all his cravings at once. He glanced back at Childermass in his corner, bent over his little writing desk, and he moved the lemon drop about the cavern of his mouth with his tongue. Yes. _Yes indeed_. Such sweet humiliation...

He would make a banquet table out of that low and sullen man. He would spread a sweet feast out upon him. He was unsure as to how it might be accomplished, of course: drugs, perhaps. There were drugs, sleeping draughts that might prove effective, or laudanum, just enough to put him off his guard. Some errand of Norrell's, maybe, to bring him to his house. Then he would arrange those long Yorkshire limbs out on his bed, securing wrists and ankles to head- and footboard. He would wait until Childermass had roused himself enough to be aware of his predicament (he says predicament, though Lascelles is certain it is what Childermass secretly desires); hours, perhaps, until the servant was parched with thirst and ravenous with hunger. Then the game could begin.

First he would use his paring knife to cut through the Yorkshireman's neckcloth, to slice off every one of the tarnished buttons on his antiquated waistcoat. He would drag his knife down the servant's chest, not softly, cutting through the cloth of his shirt, tracing a line of scraped skin down from the base of his throat to his groin, then tear the shirt apart with his hands.

"Are you thirsty?" Lascelles would ask, holding up a crystal decanter of wine.

"Yes," Childermass would admit, ruefully.

And so Lascelles would move the decanter toward the wretch's mouth, watch him part his lips. Then he would pour out the wine - not into Childermass's mouth, mind you, but into the shallow cup at the base of his throat, into the hollowed bowls of his hips. And Lascelles would lap it up as Childermass watched, helpless and thirsty, and he would run his tongue against the Yorkshireman's skin, sucking up every last drop.

"Are you hungry?" he would ask, holding up a piece of sugared plum just out of the reach of Childermass's mouth.

"Yes," Childermass would spit despite himself, those dark eyes gleaming with utter contempt.

"Yes what?" And Lascelles would strike Childermass hard across the cheek with the back of his hand. "Remember your manners, you Yorkshire dog. Yes what?"

"Yes -- sir," Childermass would snarl through bared teeth.

"Better. Like all dogs who behave themselves, that earns you a treat. But you must take it nicely from your master or risk another beating." And he would place the piece of sugared plum on his tongue and serve it up, pushing it against Childermass's lips. Childermass would have to open his mouth to take it, would have to use his tongue to wrap around and slide it in; it would cost him no end of disgust to feel Lascelles's tongue against his own, to taste his saliva beneath the sugar, all for a sweet little morsel to quell the churning pangs of hunger.

Yet perhaps Childermass would eschew the food for the chance to hurt him; perhaps Childermass would bite, slicing with his incisors into the soft flesh of Lascelles's tongue. In that case another beating, another pretty red welt to raise on those sharp northern cheekbones. Or perhaps Lascelles could smother his anger, the pain, and instead lick his own blood all over Childermass's face, over his lips and his eyelids: make him wear it, make him taste it. Make him choke on it.

 _Yes_. The lemon drop was dissolving rapidly on Lascelles's tongue. He felt a fine sweat beading beneath his collar.

 _But no_. Childermass would bite, there was no doubt of that. He was a cur, after all, a filthy, mangy, flea-bitten cur.

At that very moment Childermass rose from his writing desk and passed by Lascelles again - without a gesture of obeisance, without so much as a glance - his clothes hanging from his tall frame in so slovenly a manner that it was almost like a personal affront. Why Norrell tolerated the man and his filthy northern ways Lascelles could not understand. He would never allow a servant of his to slouch about in a faded, ink-stained coat, scuffed shoes, trousers mended so many times you could see the line of every stitch. Yes, this impudent dog needed humiliating. He needed discipline.

 _Discipline_. It was a word that conjured rather sweet memories in Lascelles's mind. Memories of Geoffrey, the younger son of a minor earl, a pretty young thing whose acquaintance Lascelles had made at the club. Geoffrey liked a firm hand and a sharp tongue and Lascelles had been more than happy to oblige him with both. They indulged in a game of Geoffrey's design which suited Lascelles perfectly: he played the lord of a vast estate and Geoffrey played his bumbling footman. Dressed up in servant's livery, Geoffrey would purposefully fumble his lord's commands, then be soundly punished for his incompetency. Lascelles would abuse him in the most vulgar terms as Geoffrey groveled at his feet; then came the corporeal punishment, Geoffrey half-stripped of his livery and wriggling with delight under the blows of Lascelles's hand.

He imagined forcing Childermass to dress in the livery of a fine house. Starched collar, ruffled neckcloth, gloves as white as a summer cloud. Powdered wig hiding that greasy hair, a touch of rouge on each cheek as the footmen of some dowagers sometimes affected. He would not consent to play at fumbling a command, of course, but that was neither here nor there: his very existence was a mistake, and Lascelles was more than ready to punish him for it. Lascelles's mouth filled with the sweet tartness of the lemon drop as he contemplated abusing Childermass in the most violent language. _Cur_. _Whoreson_. _Bastard of the Yorkshire mud_.

Lascelles reached for yet another lemon drop, his tongue burning with need. As engaging as that little scenario was, it did nothing to satisfy his sweet tooth. There might be another way - he was a man with a creative turn of mind - to kill two birds with one sweet stone.

When he had stripped Childermass bare-chested, he would lay out a diorama upon the plane of his chest, a pantomime of marzipan figures he'd have specially made for the occasion, a little candy show for a slow-witted servant. He would recreate the library at Hanover-square with marzipan bookshelves set upon Childermass's nipples, and a little marzipan writing desk on the sharp edge of Childermass's ribs. There would be a little marzipan Norrell and a little marzipan Strange and a marzipan Lascelles scattered about Childermass's sternum.

"And this wretch," he would say, lifting a little black clad marzipan figure, "is you. Now let's see how a servant ought to behave." And he would place the little marzipan Childermass upon the real one's chest and drag it about, touching it to the marzipan Norrell and the marzipan Strange and the marzipan Lascelles. "Yes, sir. No, sir. Yes, sir," he would instruct. "Never speaking unless spoken to. Never interrupting the conversations of gentlemen. Never contradicting his betters."

"You bloody sick bastard," Childermass would no doubt spit, and Lascelles would simply smile.

"I see you've learned nothing from our little show. We shall have to keep enacting it. Or perhaps--" and he would snatch up the little marzipan Childermas and rub it slowly against his lips, smelling the sweetness, darting out the tip of his tongue to get just a hint of its flavor. "Perhaps I should just eat you."

In the present moment, in the library of Hanover-square filled with Norrell's drone, Lascelles shivered with delight.

The caramel would come last, the _coup de grâce_. By then he'd have divested Childermass of his breeches, baring every bit of worthless Yorkshire flesh to the thick, sweet liquid he would heat just to the edge of scalding. He would pour it slowly across the landscape of Childermass's naked body in swirls and interlocking lines, like some kind of ancient magical text. Dribbles of caramel crisscrossing his thighs, his stomach. Dollops of caramel mounding his nipples, hardening in his navel. Thick lines of caramel running down the hollows between his ribs, coating his cock. And all the time Childermass would be writhing beneath the syrupy cascade, the pain as it burned him, the shock of its touch upon his nakedness. Lascelles would wait until it cooled a little, not too long - though perhaps he would allow a piece here and there to harden completely so that he would need to use his teeth or the blade of his knife to pry it up - before following every line, every swirl with his tongue. He would lick every last trace of caramel off the Yorkshireman's body. And thus would he have better manners out of him, out of his filthy Yorkshire mouth, as the cool wetness of his tongue soothed the burning paths of reddened skin.

_Yes, sir. Please, sir. Oh dear God, sir._

**_Please don't stop._ **

Ah, the true sweetness he had waited for. Those words alone would bring Lascelles to his crisis. And afterwards he would press his body against the Yorkshireman's, servant bearing the weight of his master, their skin fusing with all that stickiness and sweat. And he would reward him with kisses...

Lascelles hurriedly placed another lemon drop in his overheated mouth and stood up straight. He felt slightly dizzy and there was a burning, building pressure in the base of his spine, inside his breeches, alerting him to the need to leave the room. He snatched last month's issue of _The Friends of English Magic_ up from the desk behind him and held it strategically in front of him, at the same time interrupting Norrell's monologue with some mumbled words about fresh air and ink vendors. And, sliding a long finger beneath his neckcloth and collar, he felt the slickness of perspiration.

Childermass was passing by him again. All at once, Norrell spoke:

"Did you see that Mr. Lascelles kindly brought us lemon drops this morning, Childermass? I'm sure he would not mind if you helped yourself to one."

Childermass stopped directly in front of Lascelles and slowly pivoted on his heel to face him. There was a hint, the suggestion, of a smirk at one corner of the Yorkshireman's lips as he looked past Lascelles to Norrell.

"Thank you, sir, but no." Then Childermass looked directly into Lascelles's eyes and that half-smirk curled into a sneer of disgust, his dark eyes glittering with something that was like revulsion mixed with pity, topped off with amusement. As if he knew the contents of Lascelles's mind and those fantasies prompted not fear or deference or desire - but laughter. "They're not to my taste."

Lascelles forgot to suck on his lemon drop as Childermass strolled away with head held high, an air of superiority in his posture. In his rage he bit down upon the candy instead, and very hard. There was a prick of pain and a subtle crack.

He'd broken a tooth.


End file.
